


Material Culture

by manic_intent



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fandom Trumps Hate, M/M, Still Spies, That archaeological dig AU where Illya and Napoleon are competing over a possible find, and Gaby has no time for their posturing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2020-02-27 05:12:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18732286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manic_intent/pseuds/manic_intent
Summary: “If Illya really is a doctor,” Napoleon told Gaby as Illya stalked off over the sand, “I’ll eat my shoes.”Gaby shot him a world-weary look that a woman her age had no business cultivating. “Is that why you’re so rude to him?”





	Material Culture

**Author's Note:**

> My second winning bidder for Fandom Trumps Hate 2019 is Tallihensia, who asked for a fic based on image prompts by bryonyashley on tumblr. Looking back, I’ve definitely done way too many Napollya fics rofl, I was going through the prompts and being like “Done this”, “Kind of done that”. Their fav prompt was an Archaeologists AU, which we note a few people mentioned they were going to write, so I figure, the more the merrier :3 and I haven’t done an Indiana Jones AU yet… 
> 
> Prompt:  
> http://bryonyashley.tumblr.com/post/181959614057/napollya-au-the-archeologists-napoleon-and

“If Illya really is a doctor,” Napoleon told Gaby as Illya stalked off over the sand, “I’ll eat my shoes.” 

Gaby shot him a world-weary look that a woman her age had no business cultivating. “Is that why you’re so rude to him?” 

“I’m not rude to him. I’ve been on my very best behaviour.” Illya was wearing a simple shirt and an old pair of khaki trousers tucked into his boots, stiff-legged as he stalked off into the distance. Even his murderous attitude couldn’t damage how beautiful ‘Dr. Kuryakin’ was, tall and golden and handsome. 

“That’s your idea of good behaviour?” Gaby looked appalled. “I’m surprised you’re not in prison.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Napoleon asked. 

Gaby ignored him. She was hunched over a black box of a machine in her tent, oblivious to the sweltering heat, the sand and dust, and the roar of industry from the excavation high above on Abu Simbel. The sandstone cliff loomed out of the baked ground on the west bank of the Nile, festooned with fragile-looking scaffolding and swarmed over with people made ant-like by distance. They were easily dwarfed by the four vast statues of Ramses in front of the temple, one of two that UNESCO and the Egyptian Government were attempting to save from threatened submerging by the construction of a nearby dam. The sheer scale of the intended project defied Napoleon’s already healthy grasp of the impossible, and he was glad that he didn’t actually have a real part in the undertaking. He was here for something else. 

“I’m going for a walk,” Napoleon said as the silence stretched. 

“Finally.” Gaby didn’t even look up. Professor Gabrielle ‘Gaby’ Teller was a polymath of some sort—archaeologist, engineer, inventor, mechanic. She was part of the UNESCO team attached to Abu Simbel for the near future and was the CIA’s contact for the project. It was a tacked-on responsibility that Gaby clearly Did Not Enjoy. She made it a point to remind Napoleon about this every day over breakfast, a routine that Napoleon was starting to find charming.

Christ. The excavation team had better find the antechamber soon, or Napoleon was going to need therapy after this mission. His feet took him away from the morass of activity and into the Small Temple, a welcome refuge from the unrelenting sun. Hands folded behind his back, Napoleon ran an appreciative eye over the mural reliefs, lit by small nodes of light wired up on the ground. As he studied a crowned man seated before supplicants, there was a faint rasp of footsteps behind him. 

“You are not an archaeologist,” Illya said in his thick Russian accent. 

Napoleon closed his eyes. A fellow operative had once told Napoleon that counting to five was a good way to control any murderous urges. _Does it really work?_ Napoleon had asked. _Oh yes,_ she’d said, _the extra time does wonders for forward planning. Killing annoying people is cathartic and all, but it won’t do to be careless about disposal. That’ll be unprofessional._

Three. Two. Napoleon turned around with his best smile. “Ah, Doctor,” he said in Russian. “Is there something you need?” 

“You’re not even bothering to try,” Illya said. He sounded accusing as he nodded at Napoleon’s dress shirt, rolled up to his elbows out of care for the heat but still tucked into sleek tailored pants and dust-flecked leather shoes. “You don’t look the part at all. Who are you, and why are you here?”

“All right, darling, you’ve got me there,” Napoleon said, tucking his thumbs into his belt. “I’m actually a really rich art collector.” 

“Right,” Illya said, unimpressed by the lie. “What would you be collecting here?”

“The scenery?” Napoleon shot Illya a slow and suggestive once-over. To his amusement, Illya reddened but looked away instead of getting aggressive. 

“Funny,” Illya said sourly, in English.

“Was it? How about dinner?”

Illya sniffed. “Dinner? Dinner is communal. In canteen. Everyone eats.” 

“There’s a fish restaurant further up that isn’t too bad. Or we could drive to Aswān,” Napoleon said, warming to the idea. It had been only a week and he already missed being within a city. The tiny village close to the temple had very little to speak for it but a couple of modest hotels. 

“Long drive,” Illya said. He looked thoughtful rather than offended, a predatory thoughtfulness that reminded Napoleon kindly of his body-hiding expert of a colleague. 

“That it is. Or we could continue to linger around here, pretending to be people we aren’t, eating average food that’s been the same every day.” Napoleon tried a winning smile that got him a sidelong glance and a snort. Ah well, He’d tried.

“Fine,” Illya said, “but I pick the restaurant, and you pay for dinner.” 

“Sure.” Napoleon perked up.

Illya studied him with suspicion. “You agree easily.” 

“Paying for dinner is the least of what I’m willing to do for you, darling,” Napoleon said. He laughed as Illya’s ears reddened, and made no attempt to hide his open admiration of Illya’s ass as Illya retreated. 

“I’m going for dinner. If you don’t see me tomorrow morning,” Napoleon told Gaby later, “call this number and tell them I’m dead.” 

“Looking forward to it,” Gaby said. She smirked as Napoleon feigned disappointment. 

“And here I thought we were friends.”

Gaby tilted her head. “Are we? That’s a surprise.” 

“Ouch.”

#

“You Americans are an infection,” Illya said as they sat down at the restaurant.

“You picked the place the last four times. It’s my turn.” Napoleon picked up the menu. The tiny restaurant near the souq had the usual kofta and kebabs, but it also had a scattering of clearly Americanised dishes. Possibly for the tourists, crammed into corners against the cracked walls and clamouring for beer. “If it makes you feel better, you can have a kebab.” 

Illya sniffed. He ordered hamam mahshi, pigeon, a bird that Napoleon could never quite consider edible even if it had been farmed. When it arrived, Napoleon stared at it with a frown. 

“What?” Illya asked. The pigeon had arrived roasted an umber gold, stuffed with rice, onions, spices, and chopped giblets. It looked and smelled a sight better than the burger, which lurked apologetically on the plate that had been set before Napoleon.

“Ever been to Trafalgar Square?” 

“This is obviously not the same kind of bird,” Illya said sourly. “Is farmed here in dovecotes. You see them around city. The cone towers.” 

Napoleon shuddered delicately. “I’ve had far too many near-misses in London to even enjoy contemplating the prospect. But you do you.” 

Illya shot Napoleon’s hamburger a pointed stare. “You? You come to Egypt and eat burgers.” 

“We’ve been here for two weeks, darling. I’m entitled to a break in the routine.” Napoleon toasted Illya with his beer, drank, and took a bite. 

Not bad as burgers went. It wasn’t the kind of food that Napoleon preferred to eat, and having been in the army earlier in his life he was perfectly capable of enduring the same food for months if he needed to. Napoleon had ordered the burger because he knew Illya’s face would scrunch into a frown, lovely even in disapproval. He knew Illya would snort and eat the pigeon with more relish than it deserved, sucking grease off his fingertips with that lush mouth of his. He knew Illya knew. 

“You have a lot of experience with Americans?” Napoleon asked. Anticipation sat as a slow-burning weight in his gut. The tables in the restaurant were tiny, especially with someone of Illya’s height folded against one of them. Napoleon’s knees occasionally brushed against Illya’s thighs under the table by accident, crammed together in the noise and heat and the spicy melange of the packed room, an intimacy that Napoleon stole with unashamed pleasure. 

“Experience enough,” Illya said. He raked Napoleon with a knowing stare. “I know when one of you is not what he seems.” 

“How boring the world would be if we knew everything about each other,” Napoleon said, smiling. 

“More efficient.”

“Exactly my point, darling.” 

Illya frowned at him. “You should stop calling me that. You think no one here speaks English?” 

“Dorogóy,” Napoleon corrected, with the ironic curl of the mouth that the word deserved when used in public. 

Laughter twisted out of Illya as a reluctant huff. “You have a lot of experience with Russians.” 

“I’d like to add to it,” Napoleon said with an inviting grin, “milyj.” The endearment made the tips of Illya’s ears redden, but the stare he levelled on Napoleon remained unimpressed. 

“You have no shame,” Illya said. It was an accusation Napoleon had heard before, said slyly, said with laughter, with malice. He’d never heard it said like a thrown gauntlet. 

The rest of dinner crept past forgotten—later Napoleon would not even be able to recall who had paid. He kissed Illya in the car about half an hour’s drive out of Aswān off the road, obscured by the long dark, Illya’s breath hot on his jaw, his mouth. Illya did not kiss like he was hungry. He kissed with the same obsessive care that he took with his clothes, with his poise, everything calibrated. The fingertips that Illya pressed against Napoleon’s jugular had been sanded rough by familiar violence. Illya shivered as Napoleon kissed his trigger finger. 

“You are a man who loves complications,” Illya said as Napoleon turned them back onto the road to Abu Simbel. 

“Am I?” 

“We are here for the same thing, I think,” Illya guessed. The shadows chased back from the headlights of their car twisted long hollows over his eyes and lap, hiding any remaining evidence of Illya’s lust. “With the same instructions.”

“There’s also a Mossad agent in play. And MI6.” Perhaps others. Napoleon had his eye on a few people in the UNESCO delegation.

“They are your friends?” 

“Darling, you know it’s everyone for themselves in this kind of thing,” Napoleon said. He squeezed Illya’s thigh playfully, wishing they had the time and space for more than a few stolen kisses in a car. He could feel the heat of Illya’s flesh under his palm, the hard lines of muscle. 

Illya glanced out of the window but didn’t pull away. “You should leave.” 

“Would you come with me?” Napoleon asked, teasing, or maybe not. Illya tensed but did not reply, which was probably for the best.

#

The man whom Napoleon had picked out as Most Likely MI6 disappeared on a dusty Thursday. His body was found on Saturday by fishermen a mile downstream, weighed down on the bottom of the river with rocks roped to his body. He had been killed efficiently. His neck had been broken. Turned unnaturally against the sand, his legs and arms trussed behind his back, the dead man reminded Napoleon unpleasantly of a turkey.

As UNESCO and Egyptian government officials held a tense discussion with a scattering of local police, Napoleon retreated to watch the fray from Gaby’s tent. “I thought _you_ were the MI6 agent,” he told her. 

“Life isn’t a badly written spy novel,” Gaby told him tartly, “and please get your ass off my notes.” She was furiously examining more objects in her machine. Even the death and its subsequent ripple of disruption and speculation through the camp had unruffled her. 

“We should go for a walk. Leave your machine and your rusted cups for a while.”

“Whatever for?” 

“A whim? Some air? A chat?” 

Gaby stared at Napoleon evenly, her eyes tracking over his face. “Fine.” She packed up the items she had been studying into a case and wiped her hands down on her skirt. “Let’s go.” 

Having expected Gaby to refuse, Napoleon was briefly thrown. Recovering, he offered Gaby his arm with a playful flourish and grinned as she laughed and slipped her tiny hand into the crook of his elbow. They ducked out of the tent into the heat, walking briskly in the direction of the big temple. Illya was nowhere to be seen. Nor was the possible Mossad agent. Work had stopped briefly on the cliff, and only a few people were scattered over the scaffolding. The unexpected death had briefly halted progress.

The colossal statues of a dead man stared down at Napoleon with empty eyes as they walked through the hewn entrance. Two were already in the process of being carefully dismantled, the faces turned into flat planes of rock, the pieces levered away by cranes. Sections of the temple within had been cordoned off with scaffolding, the statues and objects within in the process of being prepared for their move. Gaby led the way as they walked deeper into the temple, until they stood in the Great Hall. It was still partially buried in sand, the mounds sifting up in graceful crests to the upper thighs of the statues that lined the halls. 

The hall was quiet. Napoleon cast a professional eye across the statues and noticed Gaby staring at him with amusement. “What?” Napoleon asked. 

“If I didn’t know better I’d say you were a thief,” Gaby said. 

“You have excellent instincts. If I didn’t know better I’d say you were a spy,” Napoleon said. Gaby laughed. “It was a long time ago.”

“Being a thief?”

“I’m a man who’s fully aware of his vices,” Napoleon said modestly, “and a man who’s still in the process of being punished by the consequences of said vices.”

“So, still a thief, but one for hire,” Gaby said.

“Not for hire, no.” 

“A leashed one, on a tight leash.”

“I’m trying to like you,” Napoleon said, “but some days you make that very difficult.” He smiled warmly at her, an insincere gesture that Gaby returned with a cool stare. 

“What kind of thief were you? An art thief?” 

“Here and there,” Napoleon said. 

“Were you any good?” 

“Not good enough. I got caught, didn’t I?” Napoleon’s ego wasn’t big enough that he was blinded by the facts. “But I was successful enough in my time.” 

“Ever stolen stuff from a museum?” Gaby asked. She traced her fingertips over the cracked stone of the statue closest to her. 

“It’s easier than you think. You do it in the daytime. Get there at lunchtime, when security’s shorthanded because most of them are on their break. Dress well and bring a knife. Be friendly, buy a ticket. A lot of the little statues are in cases that can be unscrewed. Just pop it under your coat and put a little sign in its place. ‘Under Restoration’, something like that.” Those were the days. 

“What about a painting? A big one?” 

“You remove the frame, hide it somewhere nearby, like a bathroom. The painting—I try to take small ones, but I’ve walked up with larger ones rolled under my arm. Once dressed as a workman. It’s doable,” Napoleon said. 

“And then you sold them? To fences?” 

Napoleon laughed. “No, never. There are easier ways to make money than that. I take things that catch my eye. I don’t steal things to sell.”

“You take things to keep,” Gaby said. She spun on her heel, narrow-eyed. “Where are all the pieces now?”

“Returned,” Napoleon lied. The CIA hadn’t found anything. They hadn’t looked particularly hard, a gesture of good-will in exchange for his best behaviour. It was a gesture that Napoleon had taken care to return in kind. 

“Somehow I don’t believe you,” Gaby said. She grinned, and in the fey curl of her mouth, Napoleon recognised a kindred spirit.

“You’re wasted as an archaeologist, if that’s what you are,” Napoleon said. 

“Don’t be rude.” Gaby folded her arms. “So what are you here to steal? I can’t imagine you walking out with one of these under your jacket.” She nodded at the statue beside her. 

“I’m just here to observe,” Napoleon said, which was true, “and provide a different perspective to my government. Seeing as good old Uncle Sam is one of the main investors behind this project.” 

“What, you people want to take something in return? Set it up in a museum in New York with everything else you’ve stolen from this continent over the years?” Gaby’s playfulness had left her. 

“You’re German,” Napoleon said. Gaby stiffened. “You’ve hidden your accent as well as you could, but I can guess. We’re hardly the sort of people with any kind of moral ground to stand on with regard to benefiting from theft, are we?” 

Gaby clenched her fists. “If you’re implying that I’m a Nazi—”

“If I thought you were a Nazi you would be dead,” Napoleon said. It was a lie as well—Napoleon had no fondness for Nazis, but he was also lazy. Killing people outside of the ambit of his mission tended to create the sort of complications that Napoleon didn’t welcome. The statement bought a wary truce between them, which was what Napoleon had been angling for. 

“You think there’s a hidden something in this temple. The Nazis used to believe in artefacts. Things that they thought could change the war,” Gaby said. She stared evenly at Napoleon, daring him to disagree. “I know of the agreement your country made.” 

“Artefacts, you say. Magic rings, magic cubes, genies in lamps?” Napoleon said facetiously. “What a thought.” 

“Go on, laugh,” Gaby said, annoyed. “I know I’m right.” 

“You don’t see me laughing. Tell you what. If I find a lamp with smoke coming out of it, I’ll bring it to you first so you can carbon date it.” 

“ _Archaeomagnetic_ dating. It’s the very latest in technology.” Gaby pulled a face at him. “Philistine. Now I know you’re a spy. Like James Bond.” 

“That’s a remarkable leap of logic,” Napoleon said, who had read the Ian Fleming books over a series of plane trips and had rather enjoyed them despite himself. 

“So what is it?” 

Napoleon thought this over. If Gaby was a spy, she probably already did know. If she wasn’t, she had so far been useful as an ally. “It’s a scarab. A jewel. Or so we think.” 

“Superstition after all,” Gaby said, with profound disgust. “You’d think helping preserve a wonder of ancient history would be enough for the American government.” 

“Sheer altruism, taking place in some other country? God, no. Imagine the outrage on the streets and all that.” Napoleon spent most of his time overseas because going home was often a profoundly depressing experience. 

Gaby let out a snort. She ignored the next playful question from him, and the next. They looped the Great Hall and talked of trivial things, their truce re-declared by the time they emerged into a sky bruised purple by the dying sun. Napoleon surveyed the worksite and picked out Illya lounging by a truck, staring straight at the both of them. Once Illya was satisfied that Napoleon had noticed, he pressed his lips into a thin line and ducked out of sight. 

“He scares me,” Gaby murmured. She’d seen Illya too. 

“Good. Means you have a decent survivor’s instinct.”

“You go out for dinner with him nearly every day.” Gaby frowned up at Napoleon.

“ _I_ don’t have a survivor’s instinct,” Napoleon said cheerfully. Not one that was stronger than his greed. If it were, he wouldn’t be here, sweating into a hundred dollar shirt in the middle of a construction site in the desert. Regret had no place in Napoleon’s nature—it was a poison he disdained. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” Napoleon said, and set off to find Illya.

#

“Did you kill Grant?” Napoleon asked.

They sat at the elegant Terrace of the Old Cataract Hotel, folded into wicker chairs against a graceful balustrade with a view of the Nile. The shivering water was silvery in the decaying light, forded by a few white-sailed boats risking the darkening day. The distant hills were grey ridges that looked like the humped spines and ribcages of giants, bowed supine and hiding their faces behind the trees. 

Illya folded his arms across his chest, tapping two fingers in an arrhythmic tic against his elbow. “What do you think?” 

“I think the tea is going cold,” Napoleon said. He had poured for them both, from teapot to paper-thin china cups outlined in gold. Illya did not drink. He did not touch the club sandwiches Napoleon had ordered. He sat straight-backed in the wicker chair, his savagely cruel beauty somehow painfully out of place and yet perfectly framed. 

Hunger knotted Napoleon’s gut, relentless even as he picked up a second sandwich from the plate and ate in measured bites. He had been hungry like this before, inadvisably, abominably. It had been hunger that had ruined him. Napoleon had seen a Degas in the Met that he coveted, even though he knew that it would be the sort of complication he could not outrun. When the FBI had found him he had been unsurprised. In Illya, Napoleon could see the same furious energy that had drawn him to the Degas, the same artless grace. 

“Would you care if I had?” Illya asked. It was, strangely, a genuine question. Illya cared about Napoleon’s opinion, which came dangerously close to caring about Napoleon. It had to be why Illya looked so guarded, why he was so tense. 

“Of course,” Napoleon said. He smiled with all the charm and warmth he could muster, with the guilelessness that he had once presented to museum security around the world. Before Napoleon had learned to be a thief he had first learned to be a consummate liar. 

“Why?” 

“Because if it was you, and if you had been caught, darling, you would have had to go away, and I would be bored without you.” It was a lie that had come easily to Napoleon because it was not entirely a lie. He reached across the table and picked up Illya’s cooled cup, drinking it down. Replacing it on its saucer, Napoleon met Illya’s eyes as he poured. This time, before he could add a spot of milk, Illya stilled him with a gesture. He took his tea black. 

“Is it very Russian to squeeze all the joy out of life or something?” Napoleon asked. He liked his tea with milk _and_ sugar. 

“Is it very American to destroy things that you don’t understand?” Illya levelled a disdainful stare at Napoleon’s cup. “Just drink water and sugar. Same effect.” 

“You can’t be arguing with me about the merits of drinking tea without milk and sugar,” Napoleon said. 

Illya tapped the top of the teapot. “You. Ordered _Darjeeling_. It is not meant to be drunk with milk. Maybe lemon. Subtle flavour, spoiled by sugar.” 

“Ah well, I suppose I was always more of a coffee drinker,” Napoleon said, charmed in turn by the glower that Illya turned his way. 

“Then order coffee. Egyptian coffee is good. Better than what you get in America.” 

“I see there’s a libertine under that delightful glare of yours, just waiting to get out,” Napoleon said. He found that he was amused, dangerously so. It was the indulgent amusement of the charmed. He was charmed by Illya’s prickly temper, by the precision of his opinions, by the way he begrudgingly ate a sandwich and grumbled about the price. He was charmed by the way Illya ducked his head and averted his eyes when Napoleon invited him up to his suite for a drink, as though Illya was struggling against his better instincts. 

“One drink,” Illya said distantly, “and nothing more.” He stared at Napoleon’s throat as he spoke, the words pressed out through very white teeth. Illya was silent on the lift up, silent as Napoleon unlocked the door to the suite. He strode past Napoleon to the mini bar, picking out two glasses and the bottle of scotch. 

“No wine? No champagne?” Napoleon smiled lazily. Illya glanced at him and poured a finger of scotch for them both. He took his glass and wandered out toward the balcony. Napoleon’s room had a view of the manicured garden around the pool and the gleaming swathe of the Nile just beyond, the river streaked with lights that drew long pale fingers against the water. Napoleon joined Illya, leaning his elbows on the railing and taking a sip. 

“CIA has a nice budget,” Illya said. 

“I’m sure,” Napoleon said. He toasted Illya playfully. 

“You moved out of village.”

“We were settling in for the long haul. I thought I might as well be comfortable,” Napoleon said. He grinned at Illya. “It _is_ a rather big room for one.” 

Illya sniffed. “Shameless,” he said. Still spoken like a challenge. Napoleon took a second sip and leaned over, pulling Illya toward him with a hand curled over a shoulder. Illya went still, resisting the tug. His instincts and his discipline were fighting against hunger, and hunger won. Illya bent with a snarl. He licked into Napoleon’s mouth as Napoleon tipped scotch over his tongue. 

This time Illya kissed with the violent temper that Napoleon had sensed bleeding off under his skin. He bit. He dug his fingers into Napoleon’s hip, into his arm. Illya watched with furious eyes as Napoleon tipped back the rest of the scotch and set the glass on a deck chair, going down on his knees before the growing tent in Illya’s trousers. Napoleon kissed the stretched fabric and looked up when Illya clenched a hand tightly over the collar of his shirt. 

“Wait,” Illya gasped. He drained his glass, setting it aside. The hand around the glass shook with a sudden tremor that Illya sought to hide by curling his fingers tightly around the rail. He eased his grip on Napoleon’s clothes and clenched that hand on the rail as well. “Now.”

“All right up there?” Napoleon asked, with a nod at Illya’s hands. 

“Yes, yes,” Illya said, trying to sound brusque. Hunger had made him vulnerable. This was a very different Illya from the man who had lectured him about tea on the Terrace. A moan stuttered out of Illya as Napoleon navigated belt and trousers and underwear, tugging out a long, thick cock that had him whistle appreciatively. Illya flushed. “Maybe we should. Inside,” Illya said. 

“We’re high enough up,” Napoleon said. He closed his mouth around Illya’s cock before Illya could protest further, pressing his tongue eagerly against the tip. Illya arched against the rail with a groan that he could not stifle. He pushed greedily into Napoleon’s mouth, a discourtesy that Napoleon would have gently rebuked another lover for. With Illya he forgave it. He took the intrusion, welcomed the next, relaxed his throat and stroked his palms up Illya’s straining thighs. 

When Napoleon’s nose nudged against the coarse golden curls at the thick base of Illya’s cock, Illya let out a strangled sound of defeat. Surrender was Illya twisting his fingers into Napoleon’s hair, shoving deeper into his throat. Deeper until Napoleon was gagging, his eyes stinging. He was harder than he had ever been. When he moaned, Illya choked out a sob, pulling Napoleon onto his cock. Napoleon’s jaw ached, his abused throat protesting. The noise they made together was a gorgeous memory that Napoleon would hoard jealously into his dotage, one that he would love as much as the Degas that the CIA had never found. 

Illya didn’t last. As he began to tense, he dug his fingers into Napoleon’s throat, choking him until Napoleon was clawing at Illya’s hips, growing light-headed. The world was dropping away, even the ache in Napoleon’s jaw, the bruised tension under his knees. Illya whined. He gasped something as he ground deeper, trembling. Napoleon drank down what he could and shoved himself free, gasping and coughing, wiping his mouth. He yelped as Illya shoved him down on the tiles. 

“You are a complication,” Illya said. He kissed Napoleon before Napoleon could come up with a reply, shoving his knee between Napoleon’s thighs. 

Napoleon rode the pressure gratefully, scrabbling his hands over Illya’s back, through his perfect hair. He let out a low sigh as he soiled his trousers, too blissfully sated to care. Illya kissed his jaw, his throat, his cheek. “I should kill you too,” Illya said tenderly, bitterly. He knotted the fingers of his killing hand with Napoleon’s, and allowed Napoleon to guide him down for a lingering kiss.

#

“That woman, Doctor Teller,” Illya said as they drove back after breakfast. “Who is she?”

“Gaby? She’s an archaeologist,” Napoleon said. His voice was a low rasp this morning. It ached a little to speak. “Attached to the UNESCO team.” 

“Unlikely.”

“Don’t be sexist.” 

Illya scowled at him. “She is very young. Very pretty.” 

“Still being sexist, darling.”

“Have you done background check on her? She is too young to have doctorate,” Illya said. 

“Don’t worry, milyj,” Napoleon patted Illya on the thigh, “you’re the only one for me.” He winked at Illya, who glared at him in return. 

“People like her in places like this tend to be our kind of people,” Illya said, refusing to be dissuaded. “She must also be MI6.” 

“You’re paranoid. Or you’re jealous. I’m not sure which is more adorable, frankly.”

Illya rubbed a hand over his face. “Starting to regret having fucked you,” he said. Napoleon laughed. 

“Well, we can’t have that. How about I turn this car around? We could spend the day in the suite. I’m sure things at Abu Simbel will manage to trundle on without us.” 

“Waste of time,” Illya said. His ears reddened. 

“Or we could drive further up to Luxor,” Napoleon said. 

“What for?” 

“What do you mean, what for? It’s the world’s greatest open-air museum,” Napoleon said. 

“And what would you steal in such a place?” Illya said. He looked thoughtful rather than annoyed, which was promising. 

“Why would I want to steal anything from there? Darling, you’re the finest work of art I’ve ever seen.” Napoleon winked. 

“Ridiculous,” Illya said. He looked out of the window. The fingertips of his right hand tapped their nervous tic against his knee. “Is five hour drive or so from here,” Illya said. 

“We could stay the night at the Winter Palace hotel and come back down in the morning.” It had been a while since Napoleon had come to this part of the world. He’d missed it. “You’d love the temple complexes at Karnak. The West Bank Necropolis.” 

“Would I?” Illya’s hand clenched into a fist. “We are here on a job, Cowboy. Waste your own time if you like.” 

Napoleon had pushed too hard, maybe. “Just thought I’d try,” Napoleon said, with a winning smile that Illya ignored. They sat in silence on the drive down to Abu Simbel. Once they reached the site, Illya stalked off across the sand, hands shoved into his pockets. 

“Not dead yet,” Gaby said. She’d seen Illya go. 

“Darling, I’m flattered that you care,” Napoleon said. It took an effort to flirt with her today, an anomaly that made Napoleon uneasy. 

Gaby frowned at him. “What the hell happened to your voice?”

#

Illya did not approach him for dinner. He avoided Napoleon onsite for three days, reappearing one evening at the door to Napoleon’s suite, not in the least apologetic about his silence. Napoleon sucked him off in bed, going as slowly as he could by way of revenge. Illya said not a word of complaint. He took what Napoleon gave and pressed his fingers into his mouth to stifle his cries. After they cleaned up, Illya lay on the bed instead of seeing himself out, his shirt unbuttoned, his belt in a loose coil on the side table.

“I’m KGB,” Illya said. 

“I know.” Napoleon shifted closer. When Illya didn’t flinch back, Napoleon kissed him on his forehead. “It’s rather obvious.”

“Obvious? Which part?” 

“Darling, I’ve met a number of you people over the years. You all frighten me.” Napoleon pecked Illya on the nose. Illya batted absently at him, drawing back. 

“I doubt you have. You’re still alive,” Illya said. 

“There’s no need to be insulting, Peril. I’m perfectly capable of weaselling myself out of a near-death situation.” Napoleon kissed Illya on the forehead. 

“Don’t call me that,” Illya said. He tipped up Napoleon’s chin and kissed him, a lingering lover’s kiss.

“I can call you ‘darling’ but not ‘Peril’?” Napoleon asked with arch surprise. “You’re a funny one.” 

“Don’t…” Illya hesitated, trying to find the words in English. “Calling me things you would call no one else. Don’t.” 

“That’s a double standard. You call me ‘Cowboy’,” Napoleon pointed out. 

“Not as an endearment. Is not like pet name. Is not…” Illya trailed off into a low frustrated snarl. 

“All right, Illya, all right,” Napoleon said soothingly, in case he pissed Illya off again for days. 

“I don’t even like how you say my name,” Illya grumbled, turning his face away as Napoleon tried to kiss him. “Like a lover.” 

“Isn’t that what we are?” Napoleon said, amused. 

“You’re my enemy,” Illya said, biting out each word. 

Napoleon started to laugh. “Darling, that’s a little harsh. You’re a competitor, certainly, but you’re not my enemy. I don’t like making enemies.” 

“You are here for the scarab.” Illya waited until Napoleon’s smile started to fade. “That makes us enemies.” 

“The scarab is a fairytale. A magic item that’ll confer eternal luck on its owner? Come on. If something like that could exist, stuff like jade would be worth a hell of a lot more than it is,” Napoleon said. 

“Ramses was greatest pharaoh of the New Kingdom,” Illya said. 

“And you think that’s because of a bauble? Please. He was a very successful general. A very prolific builder. Made a ridiculous number of gigantic statues of himself. Maybe that’s the ticket. Or maybe it’s because he married Nefertari, who was highly educated and great at diplomacy. All those things.” Having little to do on site, Napoleon had been catching up on his reading.

“Is that your opinion or CIA’s opinion? That there is no scarab?” Illya asked. 

Napoleon chuckled. He rolled onto his back, stretching languidly. “Here’s what I think. Back when there were a few sticking points between UNESCO’s negotiations with the Egyptian Government, maybe someone made up a rumour about treasure that got blown out of control. Now we’re all here. I’m here because you’re here, you’re here because I’m here. Same deal with MI6, the Mossad, the DGSE, and whoever else has been tangled into this dusty mess.” 

“Multiple agencies wouldn’t be here just because of a rumour,” Illya said. He scowled. 

“Why not? We’ve done more before for less. Hell, hasn’t there been far too much posturing and such over the space race? You guys still think we’re out to kill your head rocket scientist? C’mon. We’ve got better things to do.” 

Illya didn’t hiss and snap at Napoleon as Napoleon had hoped. He stared seriously at Napoleon instead, his visible hand curling and uncurling on the sheets. “I hope you’re right about the scarab,” Illya said. He closed his eyes. “I would not enjoy having to kill you.” 

“Aww, that’s sweet. I love you too, darling,” Napoleon said. He grinned mischievously as Illya growled.

“You are a trial on my patience,” Illya said. He leaned over to kiss Napoleon, his mouth clenched shut, his hands digging desperately into the pillow against Napoleon’s shoulders.

#

“I didn’t think there’d actually be anything,” Napoleon said again as they climbed down the shaft. The passage had been discovered when one of the four statues in the inner sanctum had been moved. Gaby had found something in her notes.

“That’s because you don’t actually have any imagination.” Gaby’s voice drifted up to him from lower down. 

“I really think you shouldn’t be leading the way,” Napoleon said.

“Why? I can handle myself.”

“Maybe, but I do have more experience in breaking into places that aren’t meant to be broken into,” Napoleon said. There was no light but for the torchlights hung on their belts, and the air smelled musty. “By the way, is there any truth about all the stories of people dying of terrible diseases when they break into old tombs?” 

“Pharaoh curses?” Gaby sounded amused. “Maybe. Who knows what ancient contagions lie hidden beneath the sand. If you start to break out in a rash or something, let me know.”

“Fantastic.” 

“It’s entirely possible. This chamber’s under the statue of Ptah, who’s associated with the underworld. That’s why it’s in shadow all year—”

“So, an evil God.” 

“No.” Gaby laughed. “Ptah is also considered a demiurge. He who existed before all things, who thought the world into existence.” 

“…Considering the things I’ve seen,” Napoleon said, “he must have possessed a delightfully perverse mind.” 

“If you get struck down by a curse in here, you only have your heretical self to blame. Okay. I’ve reached the floor.” Gaby’s light flicked around her in a quick circle before beaming down to the left. “There’s only one passageway.” She gasped.

“What?” Napoleon hurriedly let himself down the rest of the rope.

“Glyphs. Murals. Beautifully preserved.” 

“You can admire them later,” Napoleon said. He sketched the light from his torch back and forth over the chamber, checking for signs. Anything out of place. Stones that looked as though they might have been placed in after the others, seams in the walls or ceilings. He knelt and felt over the floor. No pressure plates. 

“There’s no such thing as tombs with ancient still-working traps or whatever you’re looking for,” Gaby said behind him. “The elaborate traps and stuff is all movie drivel. Tomb raiding used to be pretty commonplace. Besides, no trap would’ve survived the passage of time.”

“You’re ruining this experience for me,” Napoleon said sadly. He got to his feet and strolled down the corridor. Nothing sliced at him out of the dark. No labyrinth, no sudden pitfalls. At the end of the narrow corridor was a square room with a plinth, and on the plinth was a green scarab set onto a gold plate that flared out on either side to give it wings.

Gaby beat him to the scarab. Napoleon twitched as she picked it up with gloved hands, turning it carefully around. There were inscriptions on its golden base. “User Maat Re,” she read. “The throne name of Ramses the Great. ‘The justice of Ra is powerful’. Strange that it’s here by itself. It’s a heart scarab. They’re usually hung around a mummy’s head with gold wire. This part is weird too.” She pointed at the rest of the inscription. “Normally there’d be a line from the Egyptian Book of the Dead. This is something else.” 

Napoleon grimaced. “Book of the Dead?” 

“Don’t be superstitious.” 

“That’s funny coming from someone holding a bug that’s usually carved with a pull quote from something called the ‘Book of the Dead’.” 

“Not a pull quote, a spell,” Gaby said absently.

“That’s meant to make me feel better, is it?”

Gaby shot him a pitying stare. “Is it painful?” 

Napoleon stared at her. “What?” 

“Assuming that the entire world is like America. Does it hurt your little brain?” 

Napoleon exhaled. “There’s really no call to be insulting.”

“The spells in the Book of the Dead are meant to help the dead through the Duat. The underworld. Guiding them through obstacles. Helping with judgment in the Weighing of the Heart and all that. Nothing to do with witchcraft or raising the dead or whatever you think.” Gaby traced the markings on the scarab. “Huh.” 

“What does it say?” 

“It’s a riddle,” Gaby said. She traced the markings again. “What may stand on two legs under the sun but lack a nose, ears, or hands?” 

Napoleon frowned to himself. “Damaged statue? Uh. An upside-down branch? Tuning fork? If those existed then?” Directions, maybe? To the true scarab? 

Gaby inspected the scarab again. Tensing, she dusted down the plinth it had laid on. There were markings on it too. She read it, then the base of the scarab again. The first bubble of laughter that rang out from her startled Napoleon into jerking back, his hand flinching for the holster under his jacket. He paused only as, oblivious, Gaby waved Napoleon closer. “There. That’s the answer to the riddle.” 

“Go on, don’t keep me in suspense,” Napoleon said. 

“‘Any neket iadet caught stealing from my temple’,” Gaby said. She burst into laughter. 

Napoleon stared at her for a long moment. “You’re fucking kidding me.” 

“No! No, I’m not. Here.” Gaby pressed the scarab into Napoleon’s hands, still giggling. 

“Neket iadet?”

“Loosely translated, a piece of misery,” Gaby gasped, and dissolved into a fresh wave of laughter. Clasping her hands, the scarab between them, Napoleon also started to laugh. He could not help himself. The mirth shook out of him in helpless tremors. They laughed in a monument built by one of the greatest kings the world had ever seen, whose bones were now dust, whose deeds would live forever. 

As would his terrible jokes. “This is the most elaborate practical joke I’ve ever seen,” Napoleon said, when he’d calmed down a little. He inspected the scarab in his hands. “You’re serious.” 

“Deadly.” 

“Well,” Napoleon pocketed the scarab, “I suppose I’ll be on my way.” 

“You’re just going to take it?” 

“The mission, and all that. I suppose after the CIA’s done being disappointed the scarab will mysteriously return to our counterpart agency in Egypt.” Or not. As a thief himself, Napoleon held no illusions about the thieving tendencies of his own country. Thievery was traditional, as American as apple pie. 

Gaby stared at Napoleon appraisingly. In the silence, Napoleon was reminded that Illya had considered her dangerous. He did not believe that, even here, but there was something calculating about her stare that he could not parse. “I suppose this is goodbye?” Gaby said.

“I suppose so, unless you think there might be other hidden passages around here, with other non-practical-joke scarabs,” Napoleon said. 

“I’ll let you know if there are,” Gaby said. She turned to study the closest mural on the wall. “Good luck with that Russian agent.” 

The scarab sat heavily in the pocket of his jacket. “I’ve always made my own luck,” Napoleon said.

#

“Thought you’d shoot me through the window or something,” Napoleon said, as Illya let himself into Napoleon’s suite.

“Thought about it,” Illya said. He pocketed a set of picks and clenched his hands at his side as he saw the scarab on the coffee table. Napoleon was sprawled into the armchair beside it, already on his second glass of wine. 

“You know it’s a fake?” Napoleon gestured at the scarab with his glass. “A practical joke. Expensive one, if you ask me, but who am I to question a king and all that.” 

“I heard. Looked at chamber myself. Faxed photo of glyphs for independent analysis. Doctor Teller’s translation is accurate,” Illya said.

“So why aren’t you sitting down and having a drink?” 

“I still have my mission,” Illya said softly, “as you do.” 

Napoleon sipped his wine slowly, not breaking eye contact. “You’d really kill me over an ancient practical joke that isn’t even very good,” he said. 

“I’ll kill you over a mission,” Illya corrected, “a thing that I have done to many before.” 

“So why don’t you?” Napoleon gestured at himself. “I’m here, you’re here, the bauble is on the table. If you throw me off the balcony you could probably make it look like I got seriously drunk and fell over.” 

Illya shivered. His eyes flicked to the open balcony and back. “Will you give it to me?” 

“I’m not a generous man, darling,” Napoleon said. Illya tensed as Napoleon set down his wine glass and picked up the scarab. “I might be willing to trade.” 

That stopped Illya short. “Trade?” 

“I’m going to drive up and see Luxor after this, and I wouldn’t mind having a beautiful travelling companion,” Napoleon said. He winked. 

Illya stalked over. He clenched his hands into a knot over Napoleon’s shirt, hauling him off the armchair with no real effort. His eyes were wide and dark, his face contorted with something that sat intensely between fury and anguish. “You’d expect me to believe,” Illya snarled. “You think I’ll believe that you’d just give this to me.” 

“I said trade,” Napoleon said. He winced as Illya shoved him back against the chair.

“What do you want? You think. You think I will believe you. That you will _trade_ a mission failure for what. My company? What do you want from me?”

“Peril.” Napoleon pulled the wrist of Illya’s free hand over and pressed the scarab into it. “What I want from you and what I’m asking from you isn’t the same. The latter is easier. Maybe the former will come in time.” He pressed fingers in a gentle caress over Illya’s jaw.

Illya sucked in a thin breath, looking down at the scarab in his palm with disbelief. “You’re a terrible spy.” 

“I’ve never claimed to be one. But I _am_ a very good thief,” Napoleon said as he tucked his fingertips behind Illya’s neck, “and when it comes to things that I want to steal, darling, I always get what I want.” 

Illya trembled under his palm. He loosed his grip on the scarab with a hoarse sound and squeezed his eyes shut as Napoleon pulled him down, to kiss Illya over his throat, his lips, his cheek.

**Author's Note:**

> I didn’t explicitly follow the picture prompts, if only because I prefer Armie Hammer with hair (cough) and Henry in a suit.
> 
> Refs:  
> https://www.thoughtco.com/what-is-processual-archaeology-172242  
> http://www.sourcinginnovation.com/archaeology/Arch02.htm  
> https://www.britannica.com/place/Abu-Simbel
> 
> Re: a hamburger in Egypt: Apparently, one of the world’s best hamburgers can be found in Cairo at Lucille’s (Est: 1995), and a British fast food chain, Wimpy, opened in Egypt in the 1970s. Presumably, in the 1960s there might be enterprising restaurants who make cheeseburgers for tourists, esp since the Egyptians have been eating minced meat since their ancient history.  
> http://content.time.com/time/world/article/0,8599,1639839,00.html
> 
> This intense discussion https://www.quora.com/In-Russian-how-do-you-say-darling
> 
> This article is pretty amazing. https://www.gq.com/story/secrets-of-the-worlds-greatest-art-thief
> 
> The first satellite fax was sent by the US Army in the 1960s, but since Illya has a friggin laser cutter in the film let’s just say the KGB had it covered at the timeline of this story.


End file.
